The Combermere Legacy Read online

  I resisted the temptation to trade insults with my erstwhile colleague and decided to focus on the matter at hand. “I assure you I am not here by choice,” I said. “Colonel Croxton will be here presently. In the meantime he has asked Master Clowes and myself to attend you. There has been an incident in Ridley Field, so I hear?”

  Sawyer scratched his large, pock-marked nose and snorted in exasperation. “Jesus,” he said, “you and the bellman seem to get bloody everywhere.” He levelled his gaze at me momentarily, but quickly conceded defeat as soon as he saw the expression on Alexander’s face. “Aye, all right,” he said, “if we must. There’s been a body found, discovered at first light by one of the sentries manning the earthworks. Trussed and bound like a suckling pig, he was. And tied to the pillar in the middle of the field too. Pretty bloody strange if you ask me, and not just because of the way the body was left.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, for a start, it looks as though the victim was drowned.”

  “But the pillar is only fifty yards or so from the river. What’s strange about that?”

  “The corpse reeks of brine,” said Sawyer. “This was not someone who died in the river. The victim drowned in salt water.”

  “A local man, Green tells me.”

  “Aye. Don’t know him meself, but those who found him say his name is Henry Hassall.”

  “Hassall?” exclaimed Alexander with surprise. “I know him. He owns one of the wich houses on Snow Hill.”

  I nodded. “That would explain the brine,” I agreed, “but what was he doing in Ridley Field?”

  “Nobody knows,” said Sawyer. “That’s what’s strange about this. Hassall was a member of the town guard, but he was not on duty last night, so he had no reason to be near the earthworks. But I dare say Croxton will find out why he was there.”

  I was considering this when the colonel reappeared. Once Sawyer had repeated the basic facts to him, Croxton allowed himself to be led out of the Booth Hall, down the High Street, through the Swine Market, and across the Town Bridge, into Welsh Row. Alexander and I followed a few paces behind. Immediately after we had crossed the bridge, Sawyer turned left into a narrow lane bordered by blackberry bushes, which led us fifty yards along the river bank to a gate and a stile.

  On the other side of the stile was a well-worn footpath, which skirted off a few yards to the right, where it stopped abruptly against the side of the four yard high earthworks. This was the point where the mud walls which rose above the western bank of the river turned sharply towards the west around the back side of the cottages and tenements which lined the southern side of Welsh Row.

  At the point where the footpath met the earthworks, a set of steps had been fashioned within the side of the defences and bolstered with planks of wood. This led to the wooden platform which ran around the top of the earthen walls, against which a retractable ladder had been laid, leading to the open fields beyond.

  It irked me to think that the construction of the town’s defences meant there was no longer an immediately accessible route into Ridley Field from Welsh Row. Without the co-operation of the sentries lining the walls, the only way into the field was to walk to the sconce and gateway at the end of the street several hundred yards away, negotiate the guards that were on patrol there, and then double back along the outer edge of the earthworks.

  Amy and Ralph must therefore have been explicitly allowed to descend the wooden ladder that led into Ridley Field and re-scale it once they had finished playing. The pillar in the middle of the field was only a hundred yards or so from the walls, and therefore the children would have been well within the supervisory range of the garrison men. Nonetheless, I resolved to ask Croxton to have a quiet word with the captain in charge to make sure they weren’t allowed out again.

  Today, however, this was not a priority, for there were more important matters at hand. Ridley Field, normally inhabited only by cows, was a hive of activity. Word had spread quickly about the death of Henry Hassall, and already two or three score people were milling around the pillar in the middle of the pasture. To my right, at least twenty more curious townsfolk were picking their way along the rough path, which ran alongside the ditch underneath the earthen walls, eager to view the grisly sight.

  From atop the earthworks I could see that half a dozen soldiers were keeping the crowd at bay, whilst Eldrid Cripps inspected the cadaver, which was propped up on the stone steps surrounding the pillar, hands tied behind its back. The dead man’s head was slumped unnaturally to one side.

  Curiously, as Amy had described, a number of holes, each perhaps two or three feet deep, had been dug in the turf in the area around the pillar and its attendant water troughs. On the face of it, it looked as though someone had tried to dig a grave for the body, but had been forced to leave quickly, perhaps on sight of the farmer. This seemed possible, for the cows, which usually roamed the field, appeared to have been removed as soon as the body had been discovered. But why dig several holes rather than just one, and how did the body end up in Ridley Field? Surely the murderer would have had to carry it down the ladder in full view of the sentries or, at the very least, through the checkpoint at Welsh Row End. It didn’t make sense.

  Descending the wooden ladder, Alexander and I followed Croxton and Sawyer across the field, taking care not to fall into any of the holes, many of which had been trampled by the crowd into a dusty mix of mud and cow dung.

  As we approached the people gathered round the pillar, I detected a certain hostility in the air. Sawyer, however, did not stand on ceremony, barging a path through the onlookers.

  “Make way, make way for Colonel Croxton,” he shouted, digging a reluctant brine worker in the back with his club to encourage him to move to one side.

  Once the crowd had parted I was able to see the reason for the onlookers’ agitation. Sat between two of the soldiers, with his back to one of the water troughs so that he was invisible from the earthworks, was a broadly built man in his twenties dressed in the common work clothes of a briner. His black hair, cut short to just below his shirt collar, was streaked with dried mud, and blood oozed from a cut on his lip. One of the soldiers was pointing a pistol at his head. I did not miss the malicious grin on Sawyer’s face when he saw the sight, but Croxton did not seem amused.

  “Master Cripps,” he began. “Perhaps you would care to explain the meaning of this. Constable Sawyer left you in charge of a crime scene, but you appear to have transformed it into a free-for-all.”

  “No, Colonel,” said Cripps, whose pudgy, slightly florid face was beaming from ear to ear. “You are mistaken. I have managed to apprehend the murderer.” Cripps gestured to the man sat on the floor between the soldiers.

  “Had me beaten to a pulp, more like,” snarled the prisoner, defiantly.

  “Shut the fuck up, churl,” hissed Sawyer, who made to strike the man across the cheek, but held back at the last moment. “Unless you want your bones raddled, I suggest you speak only when you’re spoken to.”

  “Leave the man alone, Sawyer,” warned Croxton. “Let him speak, and we might learn something. Well?” he said, turning to the prisoner. “What is your name?”

  “Jacob Fletcher, sir, a briner of this town,” said the man, his eyes flicking rapidly between Croxton and Sawyer, “or rather I was. As you can see, my master lies dead before you.”

  Croxton raised an eyebrow. “You worked for Hassall?”

  The prisoner nodded the affirmative.

  “The constable suspects you of killing your master,” continued the colonel. “What say you to that suggestion?”

  Fletcher started scratching the back of his neck nervously. “I did not do it, sir. It is as I told the constable. I had an argument with Master Hassall over pay, but that is all.”

  “That is not what we have heard, Colonel,” interjected Cripps. “We have a witness who says he saw Fletcher trying to drown Hassall inside his wich house.”

  “Inside the wich house?”
My mind flashed immediately to the large salt pans used during a kindling, and to the ‘ship’, the hollowed out tree trunk used for storing the brine prior to boiling it. Both were suitable receptacles for drowning a man.

  “Yes, sir. It appears Hassall has just completed a kindling, and the ship was still full of brine. The witness happened to be walking by and saw Fletcher depositing Hassall, head first, into the ship. As you can smell, sir, Hassall’s body stinks of brine.”

  This, at least, was true. Large, white streaks had appeared on Hassall’s doublet and breeches, where the salt water had dried out. I walked over and looked closely at Hassall’s body. His face was caked with dried salt, but there were also dribbles of vomit on his neck, cheekbones, and shirt. I ran my hand carefully round Hassall’s neck, which I noted was not broken, despite lying at a somewhat strange angle, and inspected his neck, scalp, and temples for signs of violence. At first I could find nothing, but then I smiled to myself as I discovered what I was looking for.

  “Who is the witness, Mr Cripps?” I demanded. “I should like to speak to him.”

  “It was I,” responded a familiar voice from among the rabblement, which was watching these exchanges with increasing interest.

  I initially couldn’t make the speaker out, but then the crowd parted, and John Davenport stepped forward.

  Davenport was my long-time friend, and the proprietor of the wich house adjacent to my own. It was he who I had saved from the suspicion of being the murderer of William Tench, the first victim in the spate of killings I had investigated in Nantwich in December and January. I had also been present when Davenport’s daughter Margery had been killed during the siege, when Lord Byron had attempted to destroy Townsend House by showering it with red hot bullets from the demi-cannon he had positioned at Dorfold House.

  “John,” I said, with surprise. “You saw this? What were you doing in Snow Hill?”

  “I was there merely on a business matter,” explained Davenport. “There is a wich house owner up Wall Lane, who has a walling allocation which he cannot fulfil for health reasons. He wishes to sub-contract this work to me. I was there to negotiate the kindling rights.”

  “What time would this have been?”

  “About eight-thirty in the evening. I was walking along Wall Lane, past Mr Hassall’s wich house, when I noticed that the main door was open and Mr Fletcher was inside arguing with Hassall.”

  “Is this true, Fletcher?” cut in Croxton.

  “Sounds about right, sir,” said the prisoner. “I had been employed on Hassall’s latest kindling, but he refused to pay me all I was owed. Said I had done less time than I had. I cannot afford to be cheated, sir. I have a wife and family.”

  Croxton nodded slowly and looked at me in anticipation of my continuing the interrogation. I pursed my lips and turned to Davenport.

  “So what makes you think Mr Fletcher is responsible for Hassall’s death, John?” I enquired. “An argument is not evidence of a murder.”

  “Correct. However, I was returning the same way no more than half an hour later, when I heard a commotion from within Hassall’s wich house, more shouting, and a crashing sound, as though someone had knocked over a couple of salt pans. I walked over to the door to investigate and saw Fletcher holding Hassall over the side of the ship and pushing his head into the brine. Hassall was thrashing and kicking like a mad man.”

  “The m-man is lying,” stuttered Fletcher, whose face had turned a ghostly shade of white. “I never did such a thing. I remember this man watching me arguing, but I was talking with Master Hassall for no more than five minutes, after which I returned straight home.”

  “And where is home?” I enquired.

  “On Wall Lane, no more than fifty yards from the wich house.”

  “And there are witnesses to this?”

  Fletcher stared at me for a moment, but then his face fell, and he slumped back against the water trough. “No, sir, my wife was attending her parents at their house on Beam Street. She did not return until after ten.”

  There was a murmur of interest from the crowd, most of whom had been listening to the conversation intently.

  “Lock him up, Colonel,” shouted someone from the back.

  “Aye, hang the murdering whoreson,” said someone else.

  I began to sense trouble. I had experienced the power of a mob once before, as had Davenport, who had been the subject of the crowd’s ire on that particular occasion. I could see from the horrified expression on Davenport’s face that he was thinking the same as me.

  Alexander, who had said nothing up to this point, nudged me with his elbow. “Fletcher may be speaking the truth,” he whispered. “Half an hour is a long time for a violent altercation over a matter of pay. And has it occurred to you that Fletcher pays more than a passing resemblance to one who we know to be a murderer, and who we have just been told to expect in Nantwich any day now?”

  I felt a shudder deep within my bones as I realised what Alexander was suggesting.

  “Jem Bressy,” I breathed. “You are right. It is time to stop this. Master Davenport,” I said, raising my voice in order to attract the attention of the crowd, which had begun to push against the soldiers in an attempt to reach the petrified Fletcher. “Are you quite sure that this was the man you saw attacking Master Hassall?”

  Davenport frowned and gave me a puzzled look. “Of course,” he said. “At least it looked like him from where I was standing.”

  “Did you see his face?” I asked.

  Davenport hesitated a moment and then shrugged. “No,” he said. “He was facing away from me, but I’m sure it was him. Well built, short black hair. Yes, I’m sure of it.”

  “It was nine at night, so it would have been going dark.”

  “Daniel,” said Davenport, who was now beginning to get agitated, “what are you suggesting? That I’m a liar?”

  “Of course not,” I countered, “but you may have been mistaken. Tell me, was the attacker wearing the same clothes the second time you saw him?”

  “He had taken off his doublet, but I fail to see-“

  “Cheswis, we have no time for this.” Croxton’s voice cut sharply and with urgency through the noise of the rabble, who had started picking up clods of earth and launching them in the direction of Fletcher, who had been surrounded by soldiers for his own protection.

  In an attempt to stave off the tide of angry onlookers, the colonel drew his pistol and fired a single shot into the air. It was enough to make the crowd hesitate.

  “Enough!” shouted Croxton. “Return to your homes. We are arresting this man for the suspected murder of Henry Hassall. You may all sleep soundly in your beds tonight, but you will let justice take its course. I will tolerate no lynch mob under my jurisdiction. Do you hear me?”

  There were a few mutterings amongst the crowd, but no-one dared say anything. I noticed that Fletcher was about to open his mouth to protest his innocence, so I stepped over to him and whispered in his ear.

  “Say not a word, Mr Fletcher,” I said. “I know you are innocent of this crime, but you must go with Constables Sawyer and Cripps for the time being. It is your safest option. I will call on your wife and inform her what is happening. I will have you freed once this hubbub has died down. It may take a few days, but do not fear.”

  Fletcher stared at me momentarily and then gave a thin smile. “You are said to be a good man, Master Cheswis,” he said. “Now I know this to be so. It is a shame not all constables can behave in such a manner.”

  With that, Sawyer, who was standing nearby and overheard Fletcher’s remark, grabbed the prisoner by the collar and hauled him through the jeering crowd, closely followed by Cripps and four of the soldiers, leaving Croxton, Alexander, the remaining two soldiers, and myself to await the arrival of the coroner.

  The crowd of onlookers dissipated almost as quickly as it had assembled. Most followed Sawyer’s procession down Welsh Row, across the bridge, and along the narrow path that lined the eastern ba
nk of the Weaver towards the gaol on Pillory Street. The remainder either disappeared across the fields or headed back to the sconce at Welsh Row End.

  Once they had gone, Croxton removed his hat and scratched his head thoughtfully.

  “So you consider the young man, Fletcher, to be innocent, Master Cheswis?” he said, running his finger along the feather in the brim of his headgear.

  “I believe so, sir,” I replied. “Hassall did not drown in a ship full of brine. He walked here. Apart from the fact that there is no logical reason why Fletcher should murder Hassall in an argument over pay, and then drag his body several hundred yards to Ridley Field before tying him to a stone pillar, there are several indications that he is not the perpetrator. Think about it; firstly, from a practical point of view, how would a young man like Fletcher have transported a dead body from Snow Hill across the river and into Ridley Field without the help of multiple accomplices and without being spotted? He would have needed to get it over the earthworks the way we have just come or along the length of Welsh Row and through the checkpoint at Welsh Row End. That is simply inconceivable.”

  “And you can prove this theory, I suppose?”

  “I think so, sir. First of all, if Hassall had been drowned in the ship, it is highly unlikely that he would have vomited down his shirt. He probably did that on the way here. Secondly, you may wish to take a look at the back of Hassall’s neck.” I walked over to Hassall’s body and pushed his head gently forward so that Croxton could see the base of the skull, where there was a vivid red mark.

  The colonel put his fingers to the wound and pressed. “The bone is soft here,” he acknowledged. “Hassall had a fractured skull.”